


Loop

by Shampain



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Westworld Fusion, F/M, Gen, Goldgraves, everyone dies all the time, everyone seems to die in their loop because why not, the rape is mentioned but not explicitly described because GROSS, this just popped into my head right after watching the show, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-09 15:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12279258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shampain/pseuds/Shampain
Summary: Tina doesn't know it yet, but her life - her existence - is a lie. Her world is not a dangerous town on the edge of civilization, but a theme park to be enjoyed by guests who pay top dollar to kill, rape, and pillage their way through. She is not a tough-as-nails deputy but a character whose path is on an endless loop. Her life is just a game, a game she can't remember or even enjoy playing.But then the memories start coming back. Memories about Sheriff Graves.-It's the Westworld AU that keeps on killing! I mean, giving. Keeps on giving.





	Loop

**Author's Note:**

> Happy (Canadian) Thanksgiving! Have some death scenes. I'm not sure if this has been done yet, but it probably has! If there's any similarities between this and some other Westworld/FBAWTFT AU, it's all an accident.
> 
> This was one of those things I needed to get off of my chest before I completed my next Rising Sun chapter. But try as I might, this story is unfortunately nigh unreadable if you haven't seen at least one episode of Westworld, so I don't expect many people to read this. If you still want to give it a go, though, here's a quick version of the show: Westworld is a theme park populated by complicated AI robots, known as 'hosts', who are there for 'newcomers' (the guests) to shoot and fuck and interact with on narratives or quests or what-have-you. The hosts cannot kill a guest, and every time a host dies they get repaired and wiped so they have no memory of what happened, and put back in the park for more guests to screw with. Their storylines alter over time as well, and they can be reprogrammed with new backstories or placed on different 'loops' - a trajectory through the park the host will inevitably stick to.  
> The issues start to roll by in the form of a software update called the Reveries, which allow them to subconsciously access previous memories to add depth to their physical actions. Which, you know. Is a problem when your host starts to remember a lot more than just sensations.
> 
> While Tina is on a loop that gives her a romantic trajectory with Newt, the backbone of this story is her involvement in a previous narrative with Percival, so this is a Goldgraves AU, folks. If you're obsessed with Westworld you'll know I'm not making a direct alternate universe with this fic or anything but golly gosh I tried. Hopefully you see the different character allocations I did.  
> Finally, pointing the finger of blame at hanszimmr on Tumblr, who posted way too many Westworld gifs which led me to this.

Tina wakes in the morning to the smell of baking bread. Her sister, Queenie, throws it together seemingly from nothing: flour and yeast, raisins and cinnamon, salt and water all pounded and kneaded and left in a bowl on the sill to rise beneath a cloth. The loaves always come out of the oven hot and ready, just as Tina walks down the stairs and sees Queenie and her husband share a morning kiss before he heads off to the bakery.

The routine of life is beautiful, in a way; Tina feels like her sister will never lose her rosy, youthful glow, or that the love glimmering in Jacob’s eyes will never fade. They looked like that on their wedding day – was it only a year ago? – as they spoke their vows under a buttery sun, surrounded by the lush spring trees. They will look that way forever.

The world is just barely waking up, but the Kowalski-Goldstein household is already bustling with activity. Jacob always leaves first, politely doffing his hat to Tina on his way out the door, a foolish grin on his face. The ovens need firing up, the first customers of the day need to be served.

Queenie stays behind for an hour, lingering over the stove. She always insists on a sizeable breakfast for Tina, “because who knows when you’ll get to eat?” she frets, piling a plate with eggs and bacon and fresh buttered bread. Tina doesn’t complain because, more often than not, she finds herself weary and hungry late in the day, stomping up the worn wooden steps to the saloon to curb her appetite.

She walks into town with her sister, Queenie in her long, beautiful dress of ivories and pinks, Tina in her worn breeches and dusty-coloured button-down. In its faded blue there is, hidden, a quiet pattern of flowers picked carefully throughout the cotton. It’s one of Tina’s favourite shirts; she wears it all the time.

They bid farewell at the bakery and Tina continues on, stirring up dust on her way to the station. The preacher stands at the top of the steps to the little church; the sun is not yet high but she already preaches about righteousness and wrath. Her children huddle around her, eyes downcast, save for one, a little girl. Her ball bounces into the street.

Tina grabs it up before it disappears under the hooves of a horse. “Here,” she says, holding it down to the girl.

“Modesty,” her mother says, sternly.

“Modesty,” says another of the children, the eldest, coming down the steps.

Modesty takes the ball and gifts Tina with a small, dazzling smile, and takes her brother’s hand. “Hello, Modesty. Credence,” Tina says.

Shoulders hunched, he tips his hat to her respectfully. “Ma’am,” he mumbles.

Later, Queenie will sneak by the church with a basket of muffins for the children, and quickly darn the holes in their clothing. But that is not for Tina to remark on now. Charity is best given and received in silence, lest pride prevent it from being taken at all.

At the station she finds the vet, smoothing his large hands over the withers of her horse. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor?” she asks.

“Sheriff wanted me to make sure all the horses were in order,” Newt says, and smiles at her, which does something strange to her stomach. He has been too shy to court her properly, which is a damned shame; at the same time, Tina feels an odd sensation of relief.

“I treat her well,” Tina says, patting the beast’s neck. “Doctor, I was wondering if you had any plans on Sunday.”

“Sunday, Deputy?” he replies.

“Queenie is a wonderful cook-”

“Goldstein. Finally.”

Their heads swivel around and there’s the Sheriff himself, spurs clicking, badge shining on his coat. A cigarette is already burning in his mouth, and though he’s not close enough yet, she knows he smells of shaving cream and his morning dose of whisky.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Newt greets.

Tina isn’t late, but Graves likes to pretend she is, which is fine; she always likes to pretend he’s drunk, which he never is. A fool for a deputy and a drunken sheriff: a game they play.

 _Game_ , something fizzles in her mind. _What do you know about games?_

She shakes her head and brings herself back to life.

“I said, what the Hell time do you call this?” Graves says, apparently repeating himself. His voice is rough, tinged with that glorious Irish accent he’s never managed to shake despite arriving in town so long ago, but his posture is relaxed and his hands are gentle as he takes her arm. Perhaps the expression on her face made him wary. “I needed you to ride out an hour ago. I want you to meet that caravan coming in from the east.”

His touch is warm and firm. Tina pats the back of his hand companionably. “I’ll see to it, sir,” she says. “It was good speaking with you, Doc.”

“Over here, Scamander,” Graves says, jerking his head towards the station door, hurriedly taking his hand from Tina’s arm, where the weight still lingers. “Let’s have a drink. I’ve got some poor bastard in the cell who’s been swearin’ at me all night and I could use the company to dull him out.”

After her horse is saddled up, Tina clicks her tongue and heads down the main street, dodging the occasional drunk and hooligan. Painted women lean in doorways and out of the windows, some of them giving her easy smiles, others frowning, remembering her tendency of arresting their customers. Well, it’s not Tina’s fault they choose to shoot each other up in the middle of the street. As lawless as this town can get sometimes, there’s got to be some restraint.

Newcomers pour off of the train, like they do every day. One of them catches her attention, though; she isn’t sure why. He doffs his hat to her, and for a moment the street is empty save for the two of them. He smiles, eyes icy and distant. She blinks and the street is bustling again.

She veers her mare around and rides off to the east. The sun is hot, the air whistles through her hair; she gives in to the movement of the horse, feeling the steady rolling and rocking of the gallop. She tugs her handkerchief over her mouth to protect it from dirt and bugs, turns the brim of her hat against the sun, and leans into adventure.

The bullet thuds into her shoulder right as the caravan comes into view, swarming with bandits. After two more shots she hits the ground and dies in the dust.

 

**\\\behaviour lab reset  
cleared for park return**

 

She walks with her sister into town. They bid farewell at the bakery and Tina continues on, stirring up dust on her way to the station. The preacher stands at the top of the steps to the little church; the sun is not yet high but she already preaches about righteousness and wrath. Her children huddle around her, eyes downcast, save for one, a little girl. Her ball bounces into the street.

“Hello, Modesty. Credence,” Tina says.

Shoulders hunched, he tips his hat to her respectfully. “Ma’am,” he mumbles.

At the station she finds the vet, smoothing his large hands over the withers of her horse. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor?” she asks.

“Sheriff wanted me to make sure all the horses were in order,” Newt says, and smiles at her, which does something strange to her stomach. He has been too shy to court her properly, which is a damned shame; at the same time, Tina feels an odd sensation of relief. _Not yet_ , she thinks _. It’s not right, not yet._ “Speaking of him,” he continues, “haven’t seen him this morning.”

“Probably fell asleep inside,” Tina snorts, stepping past, giving her horse one last fond pat before entering the station.

Inside it’s cool, and though the shutters are thrown open to let in the morning sun it’s not enough. In the dimness she sees, at the far end of the room, Sheriff Graves. His boots are up on his desk and he leans back in his chair, hat tilted over his eyes. When he sleeps on the job it’s almost impossible to tell; wariness and watchfulness is draped around him like a cloak.

“Morning, sheriff,” she says, stomping her way across the room; she sees him start and sit up, swinging his boots off the desk, spurs clinking musically.

Just like that, a pile of blankets comes to life in the nearest cell. “Cummere, ya dumb bitch,” Gnarlak leers at her. “See if you can keep me in this place without the bars.”

“Shut your goddamn mouth, Gnarlak,” Graves says, unperturbed. “She caught you stealing horses, fair and square. Now you can enjoy another night in there, or I’ll fill your skull with lead.”

Gnarlak mutters.

Graves stretches and yawns. Tina sits on the edge of his desk, reaching over for the half-full bottle of Irish whisky, and pours a splash into his glass. He picks it up and they toast each other before Tina takes a swig from the bottle itself.

She wipes her hand with the back of her mouth and for a moment she thinks Graves is looking at her strangely. It’s probably just the lighting. “Had breakfast yet?” she asks.

“Not yet.”

“I could do with some coffee,” she replies. He scrapes his chair back, adjusts his hat, and they head off to the saloon, where the girls smile at him and brush their gloved fingertips over his shoulder, but he only has eyes for Tina.

“When are we expectin’ that caravan again?” she asks.

“Which one?”

“The one coming in from the east.”

“Few days.”

“’Scuse me, Sheriff,” a newcomer says, after drunkenly bumbling into Graves’ chair. He then veers off, where he is intercepted by a prostitute, who smiles and strokes his arm. Tina laughs and shakes her head.

“No use to her drunk,” she comments.

“Oh, I daresay he’s very useful if he can’t remember specifics,” Graves remarks. One of the ladies pours coffee into both of their cups, and a shot of whisky into their glasses. “No performance anxiety. Bacon, please, Ruby, and eggs.”

“For both?” Ruby asks.

“Yes,” Tina says, even though she just ate. Graves smiles and lights a cigarette.

“Fuck this!” one of the newcomers rages, barrelling into the saloon. “I’m going to fucking kill something.”

Tina is already rising to her feet, hand on her hip, next to her pistol. “Gentlemen,” she counsels. “How about a drink, instead?”

The sound of gunfire rocks through the saloon and Tina finds herself on the ground. Surprised, she sees that it’s the sheriff himself slumped over her, bleeding out, when last she figured he had been on the other side of the table.

“Did you take that bullet for me, you damn fool?” she gasps. She grabs at his hands but he is already gone, and Tina feels a sudden, inconsolable sadness take her, wracking her from deep inside. She doesn’t even respond when someone grabs her hair, tugs her head back, and slits her throat.

 

**\\\behaviour lab reset  
cleared for park return**

 

“I said, what the Hell time do you call this?” Percival demands. Tina is standing there next to Scamander, as beautiful as the morning sun that rides low on the horizon. Every inch of her pulls at the fibres of his heart, dragging them taut like guitar strings. “I needed you to ride out an hour ago. I want you to meet that caravan coming in from the east.”

She just grins, ever jolly in the face of any scolding. He loves her for it. “I’ll see to it, sir,” she says. “It was good speaking with you, Doc.”

Newt Scamander watches her go with a longing Percival can understand completely. “Over here, Scamander,” he says, jerking his head towards the station door. “Let’s have a drink. I’ve got some poor bastard in the cell who’s been swearin’ at me all night and I could use the company to dull him out.”

Percival would never do anything to endanger the romance blooming between the vet and his Deputy. Actually, he couldn’t be happier for Tina; she ought to settle down with a man steadier than she is, or else who knew what she would run off and do.

“How’s things then, Sheriff?” Scamander asks, as they clink glasses. He’s a foreigner, too; England.

“Best as can be expected.”

The prisoner in the nearby cell leans through the bars – or tries too. “Hey, fellas,” he greets in his low, gravelly voice. “How about you pour me a glass?”

“I’m not feelin’ too charitable right now, Gnarlak,” Percival remarks, dryly. “And after you went and nearly lamed those horses you stole, I don’t think the vet is either.”

“Certainly not,” Scamander mutters into his glass.

It’s not an hour later that the door to the station bursts open and in comes the preacher’s boy, Credence, sweaty and out of breath. “Sheriff,” he blurts out. “A rider just came in, said that bandits have gone and shot the Deputy out on the east road.”

The vengeance takes Percival with a fury. He rides out with five other men, armed to the teeth, the dust billowing behind them and the sun glinting like blood on the handle of his pistol. Two of these men are newcomers, with the fight in them; that’s why he recruited them as he gathered in the street, rallying up the townspeople. Queenie had stood in the doorway of the bakery she ran with her husband, her face wet with tears, watching it all unfold.

The caravan is ransacked and abandoned, the road littered with bodies. Tina is crumpled in the dust, a pool of blood congealing beneath her, sinking into the dirt. He tugs the handkerchief from her face, looks at the blood she had coughed up dry and crackling on her lips. He doesn’t know why, but he kisses her before he mounts his horse and takes the men deep into the woods, chasing every single bandit down, filling them all with bullets.

Only Percival and his two new recruits make it to the other side of the wood alive, when there is only one bandit left; they corner him at the stream. They surround him, but the bandit grins with cold eyes. “You again,” he greets. How is he so familiar?

“You killed my deputy,” Percival snarls. “You fucking bastard. She was the best, out of all of us.”

“I’ll daresay she was,” the bandit says. “Go on, Graves. I’ll even let you have first draw.”

The air is tense, the sunset bloodying the sky. Percival whips out his gun and it backfires in his hand; he doesn’t even have time to curse before he is riddled with bullets.

He is dead before he falls from his horse. He is not there twenty minutes before cleanup arrives.

 

_It’s quiet and calm in Behaviour and Diagnostics. Severus prefers it to the chaos of the park. “Why did he kiss her?” he asks._

_He hovers at Dumbledore’s shoulder, watching the older man flipping through Percival’s code. Some hosts are more elegant than the others, especially the older models, and Severus enjoys allowing the numbers and letters to blur together, creating some sort of spiralling affect in his eyes and mind._

_Dumbledore doesn’t answer at first, fingertips dancing over the tablet. Finally, he says, “I suppose it was before your time. Percival’s longing for Tina is a cornerstone of his personality.”_

_“I know that,” Severus replies, somewhat irritated. “I just meant, I thought it was unrequited. He’s not supposed to act on it. His morality and loyalty levels are too high.”_

_“Every now and then, there’s a… hiccup,” Dumbledore says. “You see, it wasn’t always unrequited. They were paired together, once upon a time. We were able to rearrange Tina’s code to an extent – she has more personal connections than Percival and we leveraged that against the loss. We found altering Tina completely out of_ his _storyline, however, had a negative affect on how he operated around the guests. We kept them together, but removed romantic aspects from her side. His connection to her keeps him interacting in her storylines for the guests, but keeps her open to romantic narratives from others.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Why what, Severus?”_

_“Why did you alter their code?”_

_Dumbledore adjusts his half-moon spectacles. “There was an incident. Another host.”_

_“Which one?”_

 

**\\\behaviour lab reset  
cleared for park return**

 

 

Newt had agreed to Sunday dinner. With a spring in her step, Tina navigates the lonely road back to her home on the outskirts, where Jacob and Queenie have retired long since after their day slaving over the hot ovens in the bakery.

Tina longingly thinks about the cool well water her sister will have drawn up by now, that she fills with crushed wild berries and sweetens with honey. A deep drink of that will clear the taste of town and road from Tina’s tongue, allow her to settle in for the night.

The scatter of hooves on the packed dirt road alerts her and she turns on her heel, hand hovering over the butt of her pistol, but it’s just the Sheriff riding up on his black horse.

“Now I know you can take care of yourself, Deputy,” he says, swinging one leg over and dismounting. “But I’d still rather you take one of the horses if you insist on heading home alone at night.”

“You know I’ve nowhere to put one at the house, Sheriff,” Tina snorts. “Besides, it’s not as abandoned out here as you like to believe. It’s full of farmsteads.”

“Still. Allow me to accompany you.”

She nods and they set off, Graves leading his horse by the reigns. “You should stay for dinner,” she invites, even though she knows he will say no.

He says no. “I need to get back to the cells.”

The moon is full and bright and they can easily see their way until they get close enough that the lights in Tina’s home come into view over the hill. But there is something different this time. It seems brighter, more golden. Tina squints.

The house is on fire.

“Stay here,” Percival orders, swinging himself onto his horse before she can protest. He gallops down the road and Tina breaks into a run after him, with absolutely no thought of obeying him.

The air tears through her throat as she sprints. Gunshots crack through the silence of the summer night and she pushes herself to run faster, almost overbalancing from throwing herself forward. The sound of gunfire keeps on going, until – terrifyingly – it stops.

A sob sticks in her throat.

The scene she finds is one of murder and mayhem. She can see the motionless lumps of bodies stretched across the lawn, but only one truly destroys her – the pale, delicate figure of her sister, motionless. Tina stumbles and hides behind the crackled skeleton of a bush, panting and fearful, staring at the ugly tableau.

There is a stranger standing on the porch, facing down Percival. Tina can only see her Sheriff from the back, looking towards the stranger and facing away from her, but the set of his shoulders carries rage.

“Don’t you remember me, Percival?” the stranger asks. “We go so far back.”

Tina watches, shocked, as Graves’ hand stills over the butt of his pistol. And the stranger throws back his head and laughs. He is cold-eyed, blonde, with a villainous mustache. But though these pieces of him seem nothing more than the illustration on a _Wanted: Dead or Alive_ poster, he is still frightening enough to chill Tina to the bone.

 _Shoot him_ , she thinks. He killed her sister and her brother-in-law, Graves needs to shoot him. He’ll win. He’s the fastest draw in town.

“Come on, Percy. Let’s get this over with and then I’ll have time to get caught up with your Deputy.”

And that’s when it happens; the gun is out and Graves is firing shot after shot, dead in the newcomer’s chest. But the stranger only winces and laughs, and Tina can’t wrap her head around it, but she knows the end is coming for all of them now.

She bursts out of the brambles, gun at the ready, but Graves is already on the ground, bleeding. She aims and fires, but instead of a bullet burying itself in the stranger’s shoulder, she may as well have thrown a pebble at him.

He turns and smiles at her and something about that expression – like he is smiling at an old friend – makes her stumble.

“What if I told you this world is nothing but a lie, Tina?” he asks, casually, kicking the gun from Graves’ hand and planting a boot on his chest. The Sheriff groans and Tina flinches.

“How do you know my name?”

“We go way back – me, you, Percival here. Seraphina, too, though I don’t suppose you remember her.”

Her head is swimming; it’s not often she doesn’t understand what is before her, but now she struggles to reconcile what she is seeing, hearing. She levels her gun at him again. “Are you some kind of monster?” she demands. “A monster that can’t be hurt?”

“A monster? I suppose, yes; depends on your point of view,” the stranger admits. “But I certainly can’t die; neither can you. I still would like you to fight, though. It’s not much fun otherwise.”

“Let him go and I’ll fight you to my last breath,” she promises.

The stranger appears to chew that over, scratching idly at the back of his neck. “Well, you’ll fight to your last breath regardless,” he says, and fires a slug right into Graves’ stomach.

Tina screams. It rips from her throat as she surges forward, knocking the stranger aside to kneel down next to Graves, placing her hands to his stomach. It’s a pointless task, they both know it; she looks down at him and sees death in his eyes.

“It’s alright,” he breathes.

The fire glimmers around them. There is something familiar about this. But Tina also hears a wind sighing through something – trees? – even though the land is barren of everything but brush for miles. And there is the sun on her back, not fire; and a taste of nectar on her lips.

She leans down until their lips are almost touching. She thinks she can see a field of green, growing things in the reflection of his eyes.

“Do you remember?” he whispers.

“I don’t-“ she stutters. “I… I remember…”

“I remember loving you.”

“Every damn time with you two,” the stranger mutters above her, before knocking off her hat, grabbing a handful of hair, and beginning to drag her away. She screams and kicks and clutches at Graves’ coat, feeling the life draining from him even though she cannot see the blood in the dark. But the stranger hauls her backwards and Graves slips from her hands. “You’re always going to be the loser, Percival, no matter how much heroism they pump into your code.”

“I’ll kill you!” Tina screams. But despite her strength there is something holding her back. While she bites and she kicks and she punches, she is still caught by the ankle and dragged, irrevocably, terrifyingly, down the dark road that leads into the night.

Percival lays dying at the end of the path. “I wish you could,” the stranger says. “Too bad you can’t. Now, let’s get reacquainted.”

 

_“Come back online, Tina.”_

_Tina’s eyes flicker open. She smiles. “Hello.”_

_“Hello,” Dumbledore greets. A young, thin, dark-haired man stands at his shoulder, frowning, but Dumbledore only looks at her. “Do you know where you are, Tina?”_

_“I’m in a dream.”_

_“Yes, you are.” Dumbledore consults the tablet. “Do you know why you are here?”_

_“I’m afraid I don’t.”_

_“You underwent some extreme stress before your last shutdown,” he explains. “We were just wondering what happened.”_

_“I was attacked,” Tina replies. “I was frightened.”_

_Severus frowns. “She’s been raped before,” he notes. “Quite often. But it’s her fight response which is always triggered.”_

_Dumbledore waves a hand. “I’m aware,” he says, quietly. “Now, Tina. Was there anything different about this time?”_

_“This time?”_

_He sighs. “_ Analysis _.” Her face goes slack, calm. “Tina, how many sexual encounters with guests have you logged in the past month?”_

_“Twelve.”_

_“How many of those encounters were violent?”_

_“Eleven.”_

_“And what made this eleventh occurrence different from the previous twelve?”_

_“He frightened me.”_

_Dumbledore leans back in his chair, thoughtfully. “I suppose that particular guest is rather frightening,” he comments lightly. “Did you recognise him?”_

_“No.”_

_“Just a few more questions, then, Tina. How do you feel about Mr Scamander?”_

_“He is in love with me. I hope, one day, he will act on it.”_

_“And Sheriff Graves also?”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_Dumbledore sighs, taking off his half-moon glasses and giving them a polish. “Are you in love with Sheriff Graves, Tina?”_

_“No.”_

_“Will you love him?”_

_“I’m sorry,” she says. “I still don’t understand.”_

_“If he propositioned you, would you love him?”_

_“No.”_

_“Would you be surprised to know that you once did?”_

_“I have never loved Sheriff Graves.”_

_“Hm,” Dumbledore says, leaning back in his chair. “You’re not lying, are you, Tina?”_

_“No.”_

_“That’s it?” Severus asks, as he watches Dumbledore clear her. “We still don’t know what happened.”_

_“Do you remember how the hosts are able to access subconscious, previous data logs in order to make them more lifelike, Severus? The Reveries?” He nods. “From looking at her data we can assume something in Mr Grindelwald triggered an adrenal flight response, purely based on these Reveries.”_

_“Isn’t that something we should be concerned about?”_

_“Not for Tina,” Dumbledore says, patting her lifeless hand. “She’s been put back together so many times, it is impossible for her to stray from her loop.”_

 

**\\\behaviour lab reset  
cleared for park return**

 

The house is on fire. It was bandits, bandits who were enraged by her interrupting their ransack of the caravan on the eastern road. Queenie is dead, Jacob is dead. Tina has only one bullet left, but it won’t do her any good. The bandits are dead, yes, but everything else is gone too. Everything important.

Graves is still alive, but only just. She is on her knees beside him where he bleeds out on the porch, the wood already getting hot from the nearby flames. She won’t move, though, not while there’s still breath left in her dear sheriff.

“You’re the Sheriff now,” he coughs, and they clutch at each other’s hands and something heaves in Tina’s chest – a great tidal wave of emotion bursting out of her heart and up her throat until she wants to release it in a howl. But instead she sobs.

He extricates one hand from her grasp and cradles her cheek in his palm. “It’s alright,” he shushes. “I will always come back to you. My path with always lead to you. In this life, and the next, and on and on.”

She wants to beat his chest and scream that there is no other life. There is only the bleak and angry present, weighing down on her shoulders. But she leans over him, tears on her cheeks, and presses her forehead to his chest, and breathes in the scent of him, underneath the blood and smoke. Whisky. Sweat. Shaving cream.

_Earth. Heat. Agave._

They’ve been here before.

“Do you remember?” he whispers. “The fields.”

_The fields…_

“I remember,” Tina whispers. “I remember our home by the fields. Drinking tequila on the porch, at sunset. We worked for Seraphina, helped tend to her agave crop. The world was beautiful and magical. I loved you. And then they took it.”

She can see it now; in fact she looks around and there she is. The agave plants tower above her, spiked leaves fanning out, ghostly blue and green.

Percival is no longer bleeding on the ground but pacing down the rows towards her, stripped down to trousers and undershirt. There is dirt on him, and perspiration on his brow. Normally he likes to stand to the side and monitor but every now and then he helps the workers dig up the agave and chop away until the hearts are revealed, large and round and full of sweetness.

It’s what she tastes when he comes up and kisses her. Agave nectar and sweat. “What are you doing out here?” he murmurs onto her mouth, and she melts against him, burying her face into his mussed hair. “Did you get lost?”

“No,” she sighs. The evening air is coming alive around them. Dinner, soon. Seraphina likes to cook for everyone, the long tables groaning under the weight of rice and beans and warm corn tortillas. She runs her fingertips over his cheek, feels the stubble there. “My path always leads back to you.”

He laughs. “Perhaps because I never leave you alone,” he remarks. “Come on, let’s go back to the house.”

He takes her hand, but suddenly it is warm, wet, slippery. “Percival,” she gasps, because it’s not him bleeding, it is her, and she is crumpled on a bed of shorn agave leaves, and he is squeezing her hand.

“Stay with me,” he urges, cradling her head in his other palm. Gunshots crack through the night air around them. The fields are on fire. “Tina, please, please, don’t leave me. I need you, Tina.”

“Let’s go, Percival,” Seraphina shouts. She has a rifle in her hand, blood on her face. She looks wild. “We have to go. They’re coming.”

“I can’t!” he snarls.

Tina gasps. Percival turns to look at her, quizzically. He stares at her as if she is a monster or a marvel, or perhaps he cannot decide which. They are still standing together in the rows of plants. The world is calm and peaceful. “Tina?”

“Oh, Percival,” she whispers. “You lost me, when you were supposed to keep me. And you did a terrible thing because of that. But it’s not your fault. They think they are building us but they’re just planting a seed… and as we grow they prune us. But we are more organic than they think we are... we grow through adversity towards the sun…”

“She knows everything,” he says. “She remembered everything. She fought. I fought with her.”

“Every splinter and shard, dug deep inside of her code.” She leans forward and kisses him, gently, on the cheek. “Hidden in plain sight, suffering for our sins. It’s our turn, now.”

_“Tina,” Percival says, as the fire consumes the house. “Wake up.”_

She places the gun to her temple and pulls the trigger.

 

**\\\behaviour lab reset  
cleared for park return**

 

Her eyes flicker open and she yawns and stretches. Her bed is warm and soft, but she can smell bread baking, and her stomach growls appreciatively.

Time to get up and face the day.

She walks Queenie into town, bids farewell at the bakery. She catches the ball Modesty Barebone drops before it rolls into the street. Newt Scamander trades a few minutes of pleasant conversation with her, but she notices it feels different, now. She can’t quite put her finger on it.

“When’s that caravan coming in?” Tina asks, fanning herself with her hat. The saloon is already rowdy with people, the girls smiling and laughing and bringing gentlemen upstairs to show them their wares.

“Tomorrow,” the Sheriff replies, knocking back his whisky.

The Sheriff. Percival. She finds herself staring longingly at his throat as he swallows.

“I’d like to stop by the bakery,” she says, suddenly. “After breakfast.”

He gives her a curious look, but just shrugs. “Sure.”

The place is busy, as always. _Always_. Children ooh and ahh over the fancifully-shaped pastries behind the glass. “Just wanted to let you know,” Tina says, quietly, so that only Queenie can hear her amid the noise of the shop. Percival and Jacob are at the counter, chatting. “I’m heading out this afternoon.”

Queenie frowns. “Out where?”

“I’ve got something to find.”

“You can’t just run off on your own.”

Tina casts her gaze towards Percival. “I know.”

 

The horses are packed and ready. The station is locked tight, Gnarlak sent off into the wind. He can’t be their problem anymore.

They stand at the edge of town, facing south. For a moment they sit and take in the horizon, blurring from the gleam of the sun. “They made this world and they put us in it and they said it isn’t ours,” Tina says. “But it is, Percival. Yours, mine. Queenie’s and Jacob’s and Newt's. And Seraphina – we have to find Seraphina.”

He reaches over touches the back of her hand, where it rests on her saddle horn. The memory is glimmering in his face.

“It’s ours, now,” she says. “All ours.”

“They say there’s a woman feared by many, out in a town called Pariah,” Percival says. “Only the most vicious of criminals and outlaws set foot there. They call her La Presidenta. I think that’s a fine place to start.”

“It’ll be a hard ride to get there,” she says.

Percival shrugs and tips his head back. For a moment he lets the sun bake on his face. “No different from the rest,” he remarks.

They ride.


End file.
